my prison cell is a cramped rectangle
encapsulating me whole.
yet it’s not a body that these bars entangle,
but a scattered soul the prism holds

the dimensions of it are far too small
to fit the countless atoms that compose me.
but stealing my thoughts proves no problem at all:
attention is all that it needs to enclose me

how stupid it’d sound, mere decades ago
to suggest we’d be captured by such novel pleasure!
could we be faulted, too naive to know,
it’d tear from us so much of life we once treasured?

imprisoned by convenience; who would have known?
well, that might be why it’s called a ‘cell’ phone